Some wounds learn to live underground. They do not shout. They do not bleed where anyone can see. They sit beneath the ribs like sealed jars of smoke, waiting for a name, a face, a memory, a room, a season. Maybe no one knows what you carry. Maybe you buried it with a steady voice and clean hands, but it still breathes in the dark. This poem is for that hidden place. It does not excuse what hurt you. It does not ask you to pretend the fire was gentle. It asks one direct quest

Some mornings arrive like mercy. Not loud. Not earned. Not promised. Just light on the wall. Breath in the chest. One more chance to begin again. A small sign that the day has opened again. A poem for the hour before dawn Morning Light I did not order the sun. I did not pull it over the hill. I did not bargain with the night or force the dark to leave. Still, it came. A pale line at the window. A gold hand on the floor. A quiet voice saying, “The story is not finished.” S

Some losses do not leave clean spaces. They bend the body. They change how light arrives. They teach the living parts to grow at an angle. This poem follows a tree through damage, memory, and survival. It is not loud about grief. That is its strength. The tree stands as both shelter and survivor. The poem There was a tree that believed it was a country. Its roots ran farther than any child could walk. Bark held the heat of noon and the damp of rain. Leaves made a low green ro